~ If life gives you lemons, make a martini

Tag Archives: Kids

Kid, “Daddy, I want to see the Pyramids”
Me: “Do you know where they are?”
Kid: “Far, far away. And it takes a looooong time to get there.”
Me: “you’re right.”
Kid: “But don’t worry, Daddy. We’ll take sleeping bags and water. And when we run out of water, we’ll drink from a cactus!”

Like this:

My wife’s a teacher and anyone who is familiar with teaching knows you get notes from now and again that range from the curious to the cute to the absurd. But on this particular day, she received a quite formal letter from a third grader that was so maturely written and thoughtful while being so completely hilarious, that it should be shared. Any grammatical errors are original.

“Hello, my name is Gabe Pullman and I had a incident yesterday with me and my bus which was my fault so…I had to use the bathroom which for me takes about 25 minutes and I missed my bus and I got so mad I put up my middle finger and I feel bad I could not control my temper.

But what I think is best for me is to go back to my old school. If my mom agrees say good bye to the folowing people:

Like this:

My oldest is dramatic. He is the life of the party and also the wet blanket. It’s all up to him.

For Christmas dinner, we had his two best buddies over with their families as we have done for the last several years. They were sitting at the table so nicely I decided to take a picture and said, “say cheese!”. Guess which one belongs to me?

In fairness, Gus was an absolute champ throughout all of the Christmas madness. He really impressed me how he shared his new toys and helped his little brother keep up with the big boys. But this picture is just priceless.

Like this:

So today my little guy had his fourth surgery since May. And technically, he’s just 19 months old.

He’s had someone poke a hole in his tear duct, he’s had two sets of tubes in his ears, and he’s had someone fix a portion of his, ahem, “manhood”. It’s been a rough 2010 for him, but here’s hoping we’re through with anesthesiologists for a while.

Most of these procedures have been very simple, but the hardest parts are the before – when he rather knows something is amiss – and then the aftermath when he’s coming off the anesthetic. He’s disoriented, he’s hungry, and frankly, just generally pissed off.

But he’s a trooper, this kid. An hour post-op, he was having breakfast at a local diner, shoving sausages, pancakes, eggs, and toast into his mouth while flirting with the waitress. That’s my boy, Ike.

You may or may not have read Interview with a 3-year old but in order to not demonstrate favoritism, I decided to interview my 17 month old son too. He has all of about 12 words right now, but he also can sign a fair amount, and he has other not so subtle ways of communicating. Prepare for ground breaking journalism, folks.

Like this:

I’ve looked at this photo many times. I’ve looked at many photos of my son(s) and they almost unequivocally induce a smile or a laugh or dumb grin.

This photo always makes me pause. The shot makes me happy, but there’s something about it that strikes me as poignant, or foretelling, or some other fancy word I can’t think of.

I look at it, and I see myself and my oldest son.

I see young man who is now not so young. Not at all, in fact.

I see a little boy who is now not so little.

I see responsibility to a future for both of these people getting older.

And I think that’s what kind of freaks me out about this picture, that it’s faceless, and it almost seems shape-shifting as I look at it. We become older together before my eyes without having to imagine how we might look. It frightens me that when he’s ready for college, I really ought to have my shit together, and I just know I won’t. But I owe it to him to try.

But, hey kid – let me say this much:

You’ll never know a day that doesn’t include me telling you I love you.

I might not have all the money in the world to buy you stuff, but you’ll never miss an opportunity if I can help it.

Your laughter will never cease to bring me infinite joy.*

Did you know that at bedtime, if you said you wanted another book 100 times, you’d get 100 books?

Did you know that when I didn’t think we would ever have a biological kid, I knew exactly who you were? The boy you are today is unquestionably the boy we tried so hard to get here all those years. You make me believe in fate. I’ve known you for so long, but I’ve only been able to hold you for half of that time.

I want you to grow and to know yourself, to be really self aware, and to understand the kinds of things that will make you a happy and content human being. You will never have to worry about impressing me, just always be you.

Every midnight freak out, every whining episode about something only significant to you, I say in my head – ‘rise to the occasion, Michael’. I promise to be there for you. Not in just a figurative sense – but to be there – to be your home base.**

If I didn’t think it would give you a tummy ache, I’d let you eat as much ice cream as you wanted to, any time of the day.

Kid, you make me think about the words that come out of my mouth. You make me think about my body language. You make me think about how I’m going to look and feel in 15 years when you’re an adult. I don’t want to miss a thing, not one part, of your life. You don’t know it, but you make me want to be better. I promise to be better.

Lastly, kid – you have me so completely wrapped around your little finger that it’s ridiculous.

*Yesterday afternoon, he walked in front of a mirror and said, “I’M SO PRETTY!” I laughed so hard that it cracked him up and then we were both in hysterics for the better part of five minutes. He wound up peeing his pants, but it was worth it.

**this is an especially timely note because this morning at 4:00 a.m., I had a little boy having a 45 minute screaming fit because I wouldn’t call his friend Connor to have him come over and sleep on the bottom of his bunk bed. Lot’s of deep, cleansing breaths this morning. And then my 18 month old had surgery at 7:30, but that’s a totally different story…

And for your reading pleasure, my first installment of “interview with X” where X might be just about anyone in the world, but today I’ll start with the big kid (no, not me). For all answers, please assume they were yelled at me with great enthusiasm unless otherwise indicated.

Interview with a 3-year old.

What’s your favorite color?

“ummmmm…RED!”

What’s your favorite animal?

“ummmmm…GIRAFFE!”

What’s your favorite food?

“ummmmm…ummmmm…WAFFLE!”

What’s your…

“NO CHICKEN!”

There’s no chicken?

“No…CHICKEN!”

I’m confused.

“Chicken, Daddy. My food!”

Oh, chicken is your favorite food?

“YES!”

Okay, what’s your…

“With RANCH DIP!”

Chicken with ranch dip is your favorite food?

“YES!”

Ok, then. Sounds good! What’s your…

“I want some, Daddy.”

You want some chicken with ranch dip?

“YES!”

Can we finish the interview?

“No, I need food.”

I just have a few more…

“I need foooooooood! Food food fooooooooooood!”

Okay, just give me a minute.

(pause for dramatic effect).

(returning with food).

Okay, here you go buddy. Chicken with ranch dip. What do you say?

“Thank you, Daddy”

You’re welcome. Are you ready for the rest of your interview?

“YES!”

Alright then. What’s your favorite place to eat?

“KITCHEN!”

That’s actually good, kid. But you know, when we go out of the house to eat dinner?

This isn’t a rant, nor is it going to be eloquent. I’m just going to comment, and perhaps you might too.

Here’s the deal: I’m sure this has been kicked around plenty of times on the moral-ethical debate front, but I’m going to go ahead and say that I think 72 years old is too old to have a baby.

“Five years ago, Romania’s Adriana Iliescu became the oldest mother in the world. Then she was sixty-six years. Today, at the age of seventy two years she again wants to repeat the experience of 2005 i.e. to… get pregnant (using)… in-vitro fertilization (IVF), reports British paper ‘The Mail’ on Sunday about the woman who is well aware of her age and does not hide the fact that ‘once again she is trying not to look in the mirror.’”

First thing you’ll notice if you read the article? It appears to be written by a 9 year old aspiring journalist. Get an editor!

Second thing you’ll notice is the picture of the elderly woman smooching a baby. Which, is cute and all. But c’mon. That woman is going to have a baby?

I have to admit I feel like a real asshole for saying it is unequivocally creepy that a 72 year old become pregnant. After all, I think Tony Randall was 79 when he fathered his last child – and if that’s ok with society, well then why the hell not have a 72 year old mommy?

Maybe it’s because I’m a guy (quick check…yep, I am) and I held my mother on such a pedestal. When I lost her last year, I was devastated. How old was she, you ask? 73.

Am I jumping to conclusions thinking that it’s not her biological clock that this woman needs to think about – it’s just her TICKING CLOCK? Birthing children knowing you’re going to be damned lucky to see their 8th birthday just feels irresponsible. I can hear many of you saying that we’re all going to die and none of us can predict when we’re going to go, yeah, yeah, yeah…

But let’s be practical. A 35 year old woman statistically has many years left in front of her provided she’s not addicted to heroin and enjoys bus-dodging as general sport. A 72 year old woman, statistically speaking, has ONE YEAR, on average, to live. Yes, the average life expectancy of a Romanian is 73 years of age.

Is it fair to the kid? I think the answer has to be no.

But can we legislate an appropriate age for assisted reproductive technology? I think the answer also has to be no.

This box of waffles did not come from the garbage. It came out of my freezer. I wish I were joking.

Searching for them after an impassioned “I NEED A WAFFLE” plea from a 3 year old, I waded through bags of frozen chicken, vegetables, meatballs, sausage, and a variety of frozen prepared meals that will only likely be consumed in the most dire of global catastrophes. At the back of the freezer cowered this pathetic, ragged box of cardboard.

Shockingly, there were several waffles that somehow managed to survive the constant daily bludgeoning it clearly received. These are resilient waffles, folks.

I threw this sorry box of mangled pulp on the counter and started to giggle a little. And then laugh. And in moments I was doubled-over, crying from the hilarity that this box produced.

I think I realized that the condition this box is in reflects my life in a surprisingly accurate way.

You feel and look like hell sometimes, but somehow, inexplicably, you survive.